


Go Cuck Yourself

by plsnskanks (orphan_account)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Dubious Consent, Hair Pulling, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, general cuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/plsnskanks
Summary: To quote Morph "It's so salty. If I can't fuck my Tom, I'm going to fuck *A* Tom. Without the rebellion bullshit."





	Go Cuck Yourself

Tord needs a vacation. It hits him as he is watching the esteemed “Blue Leader” roll across yet another victory into Tord’s territory. Tord pauses the screen on Tom’s angled jaw, he can almost see the ghost of a bonding mark, even behind his raised collar. Tord wonders if he plotted out his uniform just to hide it.

To hide the fact that he is his. To hide the fact that Tord, not so long ago, had him under him, whining, begging, pleading, for him. For his kisses, for his touch. Throwing out all of this filthy dignity he now surrounds himself with like a cloak.

As if it can protect him from what he, deeper down than he will ever care to dig, craves, needs, breathes like life blood.

Tord knows him. He knows Tom. And his body. It’s become an acquired taste, one that he his mind is hungering for on repeat. Every so often Tord finds himself hunched over with a picture of Tom or sometimes merely an idle thought, cum cooling against his solo organic hand as his metal one clenches in frustration.

He had him. That’s the worst part. To own something, to come to appreciate it, deeply treasure and possess it, know every facet of its value and worth. 

And then to lose it.

He snaps. He knows his army is an organism. It feeds off his energy, his emotions, his soldiers are his reflection, they live and die on the fury of his blood. Lately he can feel them, drawn so tight, a threadbare string, each fine micro thread snapping slowly until he is going to have either a full out mutiny on his hands or agents of chaos that not even he can control.

As Patryk firmly assured him, pressing the device into his hand and looking at him with an exhausted yet intense expression, every line so firmly carved in his face his entire visage was like a cement sidewalk…

He needed a vacation.

Tord looks at it. This thing he invented. Tom touched it once. Tord hates the part of him that wants to masturbate over that fact. To sniff it, to taste it, see if any trace of his darling little traitor remained on it.

Oh he’s going to get him. If there is one thing for certain, Tord is either going to stop having a pulse or Tom is going to end up right where he belongs. It’s a pick one situation and for Tord, there is only one real choice.

But for now. He needs a reprieve. It’s like when he was working on his arm in the lab for hours on end. After ten or so hours, he had to go. Take a walk. Eat. Shoot the shit with some random numbskull soldier assigned to guard outside the lab.

He needs that. So he looks at the device and he thinks carefully about what he wants. And it’s one name on repeat because his album is one with only one song, so he’s punching in the date and he’s feeling that tell-tale sign of the very fabric of himself being broken up so it can be dissipated across the time stream and reassembled somewhere closer to a semblance of what he wants.

Boom. He’s there and the first thing that hits him is nostalgia. Because with his first breath he pulls in an intake and it’s something he hasn’t smelled in years. It’s a home. A place where the staccato smell of chemicals isn’t ever present, where smoking resistors have no place, where gun powder is only found inside the safe tucked in the back of Tord’s closet. It smells, it smells…

It smells sweet. Tord crinkles his nose, he doesn’t remember it ever smelling this sweet at home. More like faintly sweaty, like two week old laundry during the summer. But it smells slightly sweet and … tropical, like fruity, with an acid tinge.

Like pineapple. 

His memory grasps the edge of the word as it simultaneously pulls up the image of Tom flushed and eagerly spread under him, mouth open, pink little tongue lolling out as he watches Tord push himself in and out while his desperate hands grip the back of his shirt as he clings on for dear life.

The room, he thinks initially is barren. Moonlight is streaming in the window and everything appears to be still as the soft light allows Tord to glimpse the outlines and general shapes of the room. Then he notices a minute shift on the bed as a soft noise is emitted shortly after.

He hears the rustle of blankets and Tord is walking over to the door to test the handle. Locked. Good. Slowly he starts to disrobe, dropping a trail of clothes as he trods across the floor to Tom.

He approaches the bed. Lifts the sheet. Slides under. Slides his hand around, over Tom’s hip. Feels the smooth press of his hip bone as he scoots a little closer sliding his other hand under Tom and up his shirt. His lips find his neck.

A neck that, at this point, is smooth, unmarred. It’s beautiful, long, elegant. More often than not Tord would find his train of thought derailed by watching that delectable little apple bob up and down and think about how he would love to be mouth at it or its general vicinity. He does so now as he pushes Tom’s head up a little, just tilts it.

“Tord?” comes the soft question and it isn’t angry or annoyed. It’s needy. It’s desperate. He thinks he feels Tom push back a little into him and it’s hard to keep his metal hand from clenching closed or gripping some part of him until it bruises.

Instead he finds Tom’s nipple under his shirt and rolls it as he gently scrapes his teeth along his neck, delighting in the shivers that it gets him in return. This time Tom most certainly is pushing back against him and Tord finds himself pushing forward, enjoying the feel of his bulge firmly pressing against Tom’s ass.

Tord sucks on his skin, pulling hard, hard enough that even in the dim moonlit twilight he knows he will see the marks. It continues like this for a bit. Tord not doing much of anything but indulging in the body under him, pulling moans and sighs and these compressed little whimpers he just knows Tom is trying to hide and stifle even through his haze.

He doesn’t touch Tom yet, not there. He rubs up and down his thighs with his organic hand, pressing at the boxer shorts, ignoring the increasing wetness and Tom’s shifting to attempt to grind on his hand. He just continues to tweak Tom’s nipple with his robot arm, the inner padding on his fingertips is apparently just soft enough at Tom hasn’t noticed anything off.

At least, not until he hears a knock at the door.

“Tom? Are you okay?” Tord would like to say his stomach dropped as he hears his younger self’s voice. Instead it’s this odd, giddy excitement that swells up as Tom suddenly jolts up in bed. He looks to his side to see Tord, face much more defined, no twenties softness to it.

All hard, attractive angles and what the fuck is that a patch? Tom’s eyes trail down and in his addled state he is already trailing a finger along the scarred lines of Tord’s face down to the start of his metal arm and then he follows the rim all the way around his shoulder.

“Who did this to you?” he murmured softly and Tord’s heart aches it really does, at the way Tom’s voice quivers and those dark eyes look so genuinely sad. He picks up the hand in his own and kisses its knuckles, running his other hand through Tom’s hair. He rubs his thumb under this spot, just by Tom’s hairline and it’s sending prickles all down his spine, little electric sparks. 

Tom is leaning into the touch and that thumb is pressing into the good spot and he really wishes Tord’s other hand would go back to handling something a bit down past the border.

“Someone who was misbehaving quite a bit as of late, but we’re handling it.” 

Tom nods dumbly. The questions simply don’t occur to him. Who is we? What is being handled? It’s older Tord, he’s so big and strong and confident. What does he need to question?

“Tom, I can smell your heat, were you playing around yesterday or did you want help?” Tord’s voice is coming through the door, petulant and grating and eyes that Tom hadn’t realized were closed are snapping open.

He opens his mouth and Tord can instantly tell by the set of his face, it’s going to be one of those spontaneously coherent jabs that occur when he gets frustrated during his heat. Tord is pressing that little spot again, moving Tom closer to him so he is in his lap, leg on either side of his knee as he lets a hot puff of breath in Tom’s ear.

“Go on Tom, open the door for him, you want to be a good boy right?” For the Tord outside the door? No. Tom wants to spit in his face and shut the door again. But for this Tord? Touching him in all the right ways but not in the right amounts? Tom wants to hear him call him good, call him beautiful, see him smile at him like he is now as Tom works himself off his knee and shakily gets to his feet. Tord steadies him. Presses his hand in the small of his back, ushering Tom forward.

Tom throws a backwards glance at Tord as if for approval, to which Tord gives a nod. Urges him on a little with a shoo-shoo gesture. Tom makes it. Tries to open the door. Stares blankly at the look for a bit before suddenly having an epiphany and flipping it.

He opens it and there he is. Silhouetted against the hall light, this ugly yellow color that floods in a wash to erase the cool moon tone from Tom’s now empty bed. Dingy red hoody with its frayed sleeves, unscarred face, cocky aggressive stance. He reeks too. Smells of aggression and empty posturing. Tord is glad the military beat that shit out of him. You get a real reason to walk with confidence when someone is willing to scream at you twenty four seven three six five.

It’s a slow chip away at flaws and imperfections and Tord can recognize the glaring issues in his younger self that only the army can temper down to a fine edge. 

“What do you want?” Tom says through downturned lips and with narrowed eyes. Tord steps in and it’s obvious to Tord that his younger self is agitating Tom with every action he takes. Was he always this bad at reading Tom? Missing the little signs? Maybe tonight is the night for a lesson in literature. For now he just watches Tom’s shoulders hunch as he backs up away from Tord.

“What do you want Tom? You’re the one that’s currently stinking up the house,” Tord says in that bland, dismissive tone and Tom wants to shove him out and crawl back into bed with the other Tord. The nice one that was taking care of him. But that Tord also told him to let this one in. So he isn’t really sure what to do.

Tord meanwhile seems to have caught something off in the air. He looks at Tom and irritation lights across his features along with a twinge of what is very clearly jealousy. Tord knows his own tells and that little way he used to teeth at his upper lip? Dead giveaway for him being pissed off or jealous about something. He’s sure Tom picked up on it eventually, it’s part of what led to him dropping the habit. 

“Oh, or did you already have someone fuck you?”

Tom glares at him incensed. He was about to get fucked before Tord intruded. On himself. “I haven’t done anything.”

“No need to get defensive because you smell like someone’s balls Tom,” Tord says with a snide smile. And that’s when he finally seems to notice the shadow in the corner of Tom’s room.

“Oh my god, is he still in here?” Tord says and the aggression has doubled. Tord merely laughs softly at his younger self. Tord flips on the light switch and there he is. Looking into the scarred older face of himself in what is perhaps the most dizzying experience of his life.

“Tom shut the door, you, why don’t you have a seat,” Tord’s older self says as he gestures to the chair of Tom’s desk. Tord doesn’t so much sit on it as slump into it, still staring at his older self who comes around to sit on his bed and beckons to Tom to join him. Tom looks nervously at Tord sitting in the chair before obeying.

He watches his features tighten at that. He leans forward in the chair but his next question ignores the fact that his little off and on fling is currently half in the lap of his older self.

“So, which prototype is the golden one? Or has it not been written yet?”

“Believe it or not, third times the charm if you fix the mistake on sheet two, simple algebra error, really I expect better from a man who failed out of college. Never one to check your work, were you?”

“Enough with bullshit, what are you here to tell me?” Tord snarls.

His older self looks on with a benign expression. “Oh no, I am not here for you. I’m here for him,” Tord is pulling Tom fully into his lap, for the moment focusing his attention on Tom as he tries to settle him comfortably.

He ends up with Tom basically pressed crotch to crotch, which immediately seems to satisfy and excite the younger man as he slots his head into Tord’s shoulder and starts to move himself against Tord in slow circles.

“What is this, some kind of vacation for you?” Tord says through gritted teeth as he watches Tom close his eyes in pleasure and pull in a big breath of his scent. Well not quite. His future self had a different scent, slightly. It was usual for scents to shift as one’s body aged and matured. For it to get stronger and more potent until it dropped off in the fifties or sixties at the latest.

Tord’s older self was smokier, heavier, choking. It reminded him of being at the range when some jackass was firing custom ammo.

“Exactly, I’ve been a little short on time with my Tom in the future, due to some… unpleasant circumstances,” Tord trails his finger down Tom’s throat, tracing a vein as he grinds up into the wanting body. The head on his shoulder emits a cry and Tord smiles down at it softly before return his gaze to himself. “I hope it isn’t an issue.”

“It’s an issue,” Tord growls. “If you think you can waltz in here and take what you want-.”

“You’re really very stupid at this age, I hope you realize that after the fact, if not before. Which one of us do you think has the advantage here?” Tord says and he is playing at the hem of Tom’s boxer shorts. Tom gets a little over exited and shifts up just so and immediately, the vicious hicky Tord had been working on earlier comes into view.

“I think I am looking at an old man out of his depth, and with a shit memory,” Tord says and he’s on his feet. Tord is gently pushing Tom out of his lap and setting the man on the bed, pecking him on the lips and murmuring something to him before turning to face himself.

“What if I told you I remember exactly how this fight goes?” Tord says cooly, looking to his younger self who is in the kind of fighting stance that, while common in video game, has no actual application in real life.

“What if I told you I’m going to set your Alzheimer’s straight,” Tord snarls and he’s throwing this punch that is painfully overextended.

Game.

His moves are so telegraphed Tord merely leans out of the way and because his younger self has so clearly over committed Tord just kicks out at his front leg and he is sending his younger self crashing to the floor.

Set.

Not even his fresh meat are this pathetic. He sits down on top of himself and even as he thrashes pathetically under him, in some attempted to buck him off, Tord just jams a thumb down in between his collar bone and shoulder muscles and watches as he lets out an agonized gasp. He holds it there for twenty seconds before the body under him gives in and goes limp completely.

Match.

Tord reaches into discarded jacket’s pocket laying barely two feet away and he watches his eyes widen at the flash of cold metal. Some sort of pathetic noise eeks its way out of Tord’s mouth and he sighs and rolls his eyes before dropping the mag out and catching it in his metal hand, crushing it like a tin can.

“I didn’t need to use this. Or my metal arm. It never even touched you,” Tord dropped the crumpled mag on the floor.

“You have this bad little habit, no not the smoking one, but knock that shit off too,” Tord says flicking his forehead, “it shits up your lung capacity. You have this habit of underestimating your opponents, severely.” Tord looks over his shoulder at the bed, where Tom is currently spreading himself open and all he can see besides fingers disappearing in and out of his cunt is two thin legs spread apart, one bent up and the other dangling off the bed.

Tord turns back to himself and grips his cheeks with his organic hand while flipping up his eye-patch with the other. His younger self gets a good long look at the empty socket.

“That’s the reason that sweet thing over there is going to rip your fucking heart out,” Tord says. And the patch is flipped down and he pats himself on the cheek. “You’ll learn though, you will. For now, this,” Tord says, picking up the mag and dropping it onto his younger self’s chest. “Is a souvenir. Get in the chair, and stay there.”

“What if I don’t,” comes the asinine question. He can see the fear in his own eyes. Tord rolls his eye. “How about we make you lose your arm a little early?”

That’s how he ends up with Tom back in his lap and Tord Jackoff Jr. sitting in timeout on the other side of the room. With the improvement of Tom being sans pants and Tord Jr. shutting his fucking face for the first time this evening.

Tom is notably friskier than he was earlier. Maybe it was the fight, which certainly seemed to heat him up a bit, or maybe it’s the two scents, or maybe it was the fact he is now putting on a little show for his boyfriend. Fling. Friends with benefits. Seriously. What were they even before all this?

He remember what they were at one point. Waking up with Tom kissing his neck, warm smile, soft words with no bite, just tender little nudges. He remembers now. They were official at one point, in their honeymoon period before he had to cut it short.

Ditch and run.

He looks down at Tom, pressing himself to him, practically plastering himself skin to skin, mouth open, words tumbling out, he isn’t sure what exactly he is saying. All he hears is white noise as he watches those lips form empty syllables, looking at the way the meld and move and trying to look for something deeper in Tom’s expression other than need, want, desperation, pain.

He wants that adoration that came on lazy Sundays, that quiet silence, that sound of Tom’s low pitched singing that no one in the house had ever heard except Tord, barely audible against the sound of him strumming his bass. He had to strain and listen to catch the somber symphony that came from that beautiful mouth.

But he came too early. Too green. And Tord knows, deep down, the Tom he loved at that point wouldn’t be entertaining sleeping with him no matter what stage of heat, and the person he was then would have fought him until he was physically incapable of fighting anymore.

And there was no point touching the only mellow part of his life. The rose tinted, overly saccharine, blissfully brief part of his life that is laminated. Sealed. Dealt and done with and if he fucks that up too he’s got nothing to look at and say “This, this is what I am fighting for.”

So he kisses those lips and ruts up hard into Tom, letting him gasp into his mouth as he stains his boxer shorts. Then he is turning Tom around and spreading his legs, showing his wet entrance and hard cock to his younger self.

“Pay attention, we are going to go through this nice and easy, I know you’re a slow learner,” Tord says and purposefully drags out the last two words. He watches as his younger self attempts to pull his hands out of his pants without looking too embarrassed. 

“Tom, you see likes a little tug here and there, on his hair. I know you figured this out and you think you’re a little master for doing so,” Tord says, fisting the top of Tom’s hair. “But what he likes is not this,” Tord tugs gently and Tom winces in response. “Lower, on his hairline, grip back here, closer to the scalp and pull,” Tord demonstrates and this time, Tom lets out a long moan and bucks his hips. Tord smiles at him and reaches down to stroke Tom, indulging him by letting him thrust up into it a few times before pulling his hand back.

“Stroking him off because he didn’t cum while you were knotting him is probably a sign you did a shit job,” Tord says and he rubs his tip against Tom’s entrance. Tom immediately responds by trying to line himself up, face scrunching in concentration as he manages to get just the head in. Tord pulls him back, flush against his chest, simultaneously pulling out his tip leading to Tom whining.

“You want him to beg, stop being so impatient. He’ll do it on his own if you wait long enough, every time.”

Tord continues to play with Tom a little for a few quiet seconds. Running his hands over his chest and stomach, feeling up his thighs. Tom meanwhile is trying to move forward again to get direct contact with Tord’s cock and line it up to his cunt.

Tord pulls him back again and a frustrated whine is out, high and nasally. Then comes the plea.

“Tord, stop teasing me, please.”

“Mmm, tell me what you want,” Tord purrs into Tom’s ear. 

Tom tries to move himself but finds a hand cupping his cunt and gets distracted by that, grinding down onto it as he continues “I want you to knot me, please.” 

“And you don’t mind an audience?”

Tom closes his eyes tightly and pulls a sharp inhale as Tord finally offers him a finger and pushes in. “No, I like it.”

Tord looks to himself who is now openly stroking himself and staring purely at Tom, watching as Tord gives him another finger, which Tom eagerly delights in.

“He really does. Nothing got him hot and bothered like fucking him in front of others. Used to fuck him against a mirror I told him was a two way glass, you can’t even imagine the way his tight little cunt squeezed when I listed off who was watching on the other side.”

Third finger is in and scissoring. Tom is about unbearable to handle, with his writhing and squirming. Tord pulls out his fingers and wipes them off on the sheets. 

Both Tords are quiet as they wait for Tom’s next move. Which is to promptly turn his ass to Tord sitting in the chair who just about cums in his fist at the view. Tom starts to mouth and kiss at Tord’s neck and he is pushing down on his crotch.

This high pitched silky voice comes out of Tom. Tord knows instantly what the tone is even if he has heard it very, very seldom. Tom rarely used his omega voice, ever. No matter how good their relationship was, or how bad it was. He could count the amount of times on one hand.

The last time had left Tord distracted enough for Tom to pull the gun he had earlier out of his coat pocket and maneuver his way to an escape. Not, of course, before leaving Tord tied to his chair, pants down, still half hard, in the board meeting room where his regular broadcast was filmed.

On time as it happens.

He had intended to have a quickie before said broadcast, but it ended up lasting until Patryk manually cut the entire cctv power, meaning Tom’s escape was unmonitored and it is unknown which allied force picked him up. Paul untied him and Tord 

The next month offered the death penalty for anyone that dared comment on the Red Leader’s … phallic assets. 

Tord was unaware of the kind of grip he had Tom in until he hear the whimper. Immediately he released Tom and pushed him onto his back. Tom was about to complain but then he felt a hot mouth against him, tonguing inside and all complaints are thrown out the window. 

He grips Tom around the base and ignores the omega’s distressed whines and pleas as he only pushes in deeper, exploring until he can feel Tom’s legs quivering. Tord pulls off and wipes his face, when he turns back he is looking at his cum across his hand as he sits in the chair looking like a wreck.

“It’s no wonder he’s such a needy little mess, you can barely handle yourself,” Tord says as he looks on in disdain.

He sits down with Tom in his lap again, pulling his legs up to spread them, showing Tord a good view of what Tom had to offer between them. He takes two fingers and spreads Tom.

“When unsatisfied, Tom tends to wander, that is your last and most important lesson,” Tord says and he keeps Tom spread a moment before releasing him. 

And finally, finally, allowing Tom some respite from the torture. He lines himself up and pushes in, letting Tom slide down his length slowly. A few times he stops, letting Tom adjust, waiting for him to loosen a bit, before Tom is fully seated and the room is just the sound of him catching his breath.

Tord starts these long, powerful strokes, clutching Tom to him like he’s a fuck toy and he is thinking about how sweet those lips were, sucking him off, letting out all those long moans, how good Tom felt riding him. How he had used his voice. His tone, the one gifted for him by biology, the one that made Tord melt into putty.

He had used that sweet little voice to ask him “To mark me.”

Tord almost doesn’t notice Tom cumming, that’s how in his head he is. Tom lets out a sharp cry and he is clenching down around Tord and it feels so damn good to have this kind of thing again. Tord wants to mark him more than he wants anything. He wants Tom at every stage of their relationship to be his, definitively and clearly. 

But this Tom isn’t his. He’s made his choices and he can’t afford to majorly fuck up the timeline by pulling stupid shit. He just has to grin and bear it for the moment then go hope he can unfuck the present.

Tom meanwhile, is a mess. He feels Tord’s knot start to swell and he is already sore and out of it. Overstimulated. Ready for bed. Then he feels that familiar ache and parts of him are stretching in ways he can remember being unpleasant. He tenses as he prepares for this Tord to do what he usually does, knot him, shift around until he is comfortable, cum, and then tug until he can pull out, leaving Tom with a sore cunt and if he is lucky, a shitty second orgasm from a handy.

Except that isn’t how this goes.

Tord starts rubbing at his abdomen whispering for him to loosen up, telling him he is doing so good, that he looks so nice around his knot. He calls him that little Norwegian pet name his Tord calls him once in a blue moon. Tom wishes he would call him it more. And not just when he was trying to wheedle sex out of him or thank him for sex.

Tom finds the knot shifting deeper and pushing around until suddenly he is hit with a wave of pleasure that keeps coming. He tenses up again but this time Tord lets him, the washes of feeling just getting stronger as his fingers curl in on his palms.

“Tord,” Tom is chanting his name on repeat, pressing back against him, trying to tilt his head up for a kiss. Tord gives him one on his forehead as he focuses on massaging different parts of Tom’s body, checking for soreness, tension, anything like that. 

“I’m right here, I’ll always be right here,” Tord murmurs to him.

And in that spook way of his, Tom suddenly snaps into coherency, “No you won’t, I know you.”

The last three words come dripping with the exact same contempt that Tom had in his voice when he turned to leave. Tord can still see that cold, dead look on his face. Those black eyes with no light, no mercy.

No promise of a future.

Tord is shoving him down and thrusting up harder and harder. Tom’s mouth is open and he looks to be on the border between intense pain, and intense pleasure. Tord just hold him there, down against his knot cumming deep inside Tom as Tom himself lets go across his stomach. Tord pulls out. Tom slumps into the bed spread and he is pulling him up and tucking him under the covers. 

Then he looks to himself. Snoring peacefully on the chair. Cum still in hand. Tord wonders, deeply truly wonders, if the price of murdering his past self is worth the absolute havoc to the timeline. He swallows the thought, bitter though it is, and drags himself into bed, managing to position him next to Tom. 

Tord wipes himself down and redresses, picking up the gun and putting it back in his pocket. He goes back over and looks at the two of them sleeping.

They were younger then. He remembers. He remembers being that meathead dope who is living with his best friends and his “it’s complicated”. Remembers what it was like having choices about what he did on a daily basis, about who he associated with.

He remembers being on good terms with Edd.

He stoops down and kisses Tom one more time, running his hand through that soft brown hair before straightening pulling out his second gun. He sets it to erase, presses the barrel against both foreheads, and then tucks it away as he pulls out the other device and types in the coordinates. In an instant he is back. He comes back fifteen minutes before Patryk is set to enter and suggest he leave.

Tord sits in the board room, where he last saw his Tom. He sits there all fifteen minutes, and when Patryk comes in and sees the device on the table, he picks it up, and leaves with it without a word.

Tord sits in the board room, staring at the blank screen where Tom’s face was displayed five minutes ago in a now erased timeline.

Or maybe they aren’t destroyed. Tord isn’t really sure yet, what happens. The whole discovery still feels like a fluke. But he likes to think that the timelines don’t end.

That they fracture and that the timeline as they know it is just a big, blooming time fractal, and in one of those tiny little facets, tucked far, far away, there’s a universe where the honeymoon period didn’t get cut short.

Where maybe he backed out. Backed down. Where maybe it didn’t take him losing an eye to see Tom for what he really was.

Where right about now, right at this age, him and Tom are in some shitty mundane suburb house, on the same street as Edd and Matt, raising their two point five children, and Tom wakes up every morning, looking at him the way he remembers him looking at him on those slow molasses Sundays, so far back.

**Author's Note:**

> join in the general stupidity over @plsnskanks.tumblr.com


End file.
